


momentum

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is the heir to the throne and the perfect prince in every way — young, wise, charming. He’s got a dirty secret, though, one that cannot be revealed — in a family of royal alphas, he was born an omega. His inner self repressed for years, his first heat comes late, and no beta Dean’s father shoves his way will calm it. It takes an alpha, and not a royal one at all, to make it somewhat right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	momentum

**Author's Note:**

> So, apparently, my giftee dropped out, but this was based on one of their prompts with some of their likes mixed in. I hope you random readers will enjoy it. ♥

Dean wakes with a dry mouth and a distant itch that he tries to rub out by running his hand over his face. The itch scurries to the back of Dean’s mind, momentarily leaving him be, as it has been doing for months now.

Dean hasn’t told about it to anyone, although perhaps he should have.

He doesn’t want to worry anyone, is the thing, least of all his father, the king. Years have taught him that it is a bad idea to anger the king, no matter the issue. Dean has angered him a great many times – possibly starting with the day he was born and his father breathed in, his royal nose good at deciphering the scent of the youngsters.

He could smell the odor of an omega on his eldest sooner than he himself could feel it, Dean is sure, and that was – and continues to be – his greatest disappointment.

When you are born into the king’s family, and when you’re the first son – Dean learned this at a very young age – you are supposed to be an alpha, you are not supposed to be what Dean is, and so it’s only natural to repress what you are when it happens anyway.

Dean has lived in his younger brother’s shadow for years – his brother, Sam, being the alpha Dean could never be. 

There are only a few pleasures Dean has left – among the rows of faithful betas who would never let Dean’s secret out, as it has been a secret for many springs now, but aren’t the right substitute for what Dean truly needs, he doesn’t have much time or space in his heart for many.

One of those pleasures, however, just a simple thing one wouldn’t consider twice, is going out in his father’s name and meeting with the citizens – the farmers, the butchers, the maidens all living somewhat happily just under the castle, a few miles away. Two strong alphas for guards cover Dean’s omega scent well – he does get a suspicious look now and then, which always makes his gut tremble in worry, but it has never stopped him from going.

The folk has always accepted him despite his difference – after all, his food is served on golden plates while theirs is often eaten out of wooden hand-made bowls, for even though the kingdom prospers, there are still some who remain untouched. 

Dean loves them all – loves the poor perhaps even more than he loves the rest, for how accepting they are of him, how they do not look down on him when they see he’d rather treat them as equals.

So even though he wakes up with his mouth dry and his tongue glued to the roof of it, a very distasteful remnant of sleep; even though he itches and his eighteen years of life bug him and kick at his conscience with a heavy boot of his first heat yet to come; even though he itches in it like it was just dried sweat rubbing against his clothes, he is glad to be awake.

Today is his day out – he won’t need to meet with Bela, the beta currently by his side, won’t need to listen to the king’s complaints about how he should take her and finally marry. 

Today is his day out, which means friendly faces he has never seen before, and swallowing the distant taste of freedom of their lives, with the guards keeping him safe out in the open.

Almost excited, Dean throws the heavy burgundy sheets away and calls for his clothes.

 

The guards close the door behind them before the king can call Dean’s name and summon him – and Dean is glad. Despite being barely a few feet away from the red brick of the old castle, he pretends that the air he breathes in is fresh and unstained by the politics that go on behind the tall walls.

The old dusty road, quite busy at this time of the day even though Dean is not allowed to converse with anyone, leads to the town – more specifically, to the farm market that takes place on the main square.

The sun soon gets shielded by an army of clouds and the square seems gloomy, a darker shade falling upon the stalls; the men’s calls are cheerful, various accents mixed together, and the women still offer their baked goods with a smile stretching their wrinkled faces.

Dean, as is his duty, stops by every stall that catches his eye and that has got more people hanging out around them; while he dislikes crowds and their tightness, they make it easier to cover his scent.

The biggest crowd seems to be gathering around a stall near the very end of the market, people tall and short and wide and thin all pressed against each other, not letting Dean see. 

Handing the tiny cup still half-filled with mead to the guard on his right, he leans to him slightly. “Whose stall is that?” he asks in a mutter, so the guard is the only one who can hear him. He doesn’t like people knowing that he’s not familiar with everyone – but the stall has poked his interest. 

He is sure he has never seen it before; sure the spot had been empty up until this point. Then again, he hasn’t visited in quite a while; Bela was introduced to him and he had to spend most of his time in the castle, with her. He didn’t like it much, even though Bela proved to be a quiet, understanding companion.

“Jackie – I mean Jacqueline’s bakery, your highness,” the guard replies with a smile stretching his lips, revealing that those lips have tasted this Jacqueline’s goods and can perhaps still taste the delicacy and the sugar, or maybe the fragile softness of her bread.

Dean makes a beeline for it, not able to pinpoint why exactly he is so intrigued by the backs of the many people waiting for a piece of something sweet or salty out of this woman’s oven. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been out of the castle for a while, he decides as he makes his way through the square, trying to smile gently at everyone he passes. The guards can do nothing but follow him, tug along with a rather displeased expression on their faces. They like the comfort of the castle much more than their prince does; they don’t like getting their shoes dirty anymore.

Eventually, people that create the crowd, woven together into a tight pattern, step back when they realize it’s the King’s son, their future leader – oh God if only they knew everything if only they knew the secret – and let him walk through.

It only takes one bite into Jacqueline’s with care prepared pie before Dean is once again leaning towards his guards and suggesting that they make a deal with her – King would surely appreciate pie as delicious as this on his dining table in the place of breakfast.

The guards can’t say no; and Jackie seems like she can’t afford it, either. The edges of her washed out skirt are covered in years of wearing it constantly, her knuckles a tired red, the scent of a beta without a mate lingering around her. She looks poor, perhaps she gives food out without expecting payment. Dean is not doing this out of the kindness of his heart, though – as he and his guards follow her to her bakery after she closes her stall promptly, letting the people standing by take the food she couldn’t sell, his tongue is poking the corners of his mouth, eager to find any remnants of the pie.

The bakery is truly in the poor part of the city, and when all four of them enter it, Jacqueline babbling excitedly about her assortment, the bakery shows to be small and packed – and not empty.

Perhaps out of surprise, breath hitches unpleasantly at the back of Dean’s throat when he notices the man standing behind the counter, placing a bowl with dark brown cookies on it. Reclaiming his balance, Dean breathes in and realizes right away that the man is an alpha – his scent is somewhat spicy and strong, and the back of Dean’s neck suddenly starts itching. 

With his eyes glued to the man, unable to look away for at least one calm second, Dean marvels at his dark hair, at his scruff, at the movement of his shoulders as his hands move, and he imagines his chest moving as well, in deep even breaths. 

Dean finally breathes out.

He watches the man straighten his back and frown when he sees that Jacqueline is back so soon, and with company.

“This is Castiel,” Jacqueline introduces him, making Dean wonder whether they have travelled across the kingdom, whether they picked the name in some godforsaken tavern in the middle of nowhere, whether Castiel, with a name like that, rebelled against his mother not by refusing betas but by getting ornaments on his arms in black ink, put there by a witch or a man bound to the seas. Were Dean a kid, he would be tempted to ask about dragons hiding in distant dark caves just hearing that name.

“Prince,” Castiel says in a clear albeit deep voice and bows his head humbly. 

It makes Dean shaky, knowing that this man, this man with such a name and such a face has ever laid his eyes upon a token or perhaps an amulet with Dean’s face on it, and maybe wondered whether the royal alpha family could compare to his own boiling blood.

He feels small, surprised to feel a strong yearning for appreciation root in his gut, and he finally looks away.

Dean, however, continues to feel Castiel’s glance on him; to such a degree he wants to grab his guards, who are now chit chatting away about Jacqueline’s work, and shield himself with them, cover his scent properly.

Oh god, his scent. Dean feels like he’s bathing in it, and after one of his two guards shoots him a quiet but frowny look, he doesn’t explain it to himself logically. Instead of understanding that simply, he should be the one talking to Jackie about the deal, he understands the alpha’s look as a suspicious question.

“Castiel really helps with the baking, he’s got a hand for it, knows what to do exactly without me ever having to teach him,” Jackie is saying when Dean finally zaps back.

“Please,” Castiel says, and when Dean looks to him, the shiver of his itch still tickling his neck, the baker is looking straight back at him, squinting slightly, inspecting him. “I’ve spent my whole life covered in flour, of course I picked up on everything.”

Despite talking to his mother, his eyes stay on Dean’s face, determined to see every inch of it, even though from behind the counter. Dean realizes he’s not being polite with what he’s saying – he is simply stating the truth, not belittling himself but letting the prince himself know that Castiel is not stupid. He can pick up on everything.

Dean takes a tentative step back. 

“Would he be able to deliver goods to the castle every morning? It’s about fifteen minutes if he takes a carriage,” one of the guards says, and Dean’s eyes shoot to him now in panic. He can smell his guards’ scents with more intensity than he ever could before; it prickles his nose, travels up to his brain. Even though he’s taken a step back from them, he can now smell them clearly, their scents fighting, mixing together in the air, sweat and power and control.

One scent is more powerful, though; it’s the third smell filling the room, Castiel’s scent. The spices, the temptation. It penetrates Dean’s mind without mercy.

The itch on the back of his neck, up until now merely just a playful and annoying thing you could bat away with one swift movement of your hand, explodes. Dean’s head starts spinning; he can feel heat run up to his face and color it in red, and he can almost hear the crack at the back of his head when the itch turns into sweat and breaks out on Dean’s skin.

 _Breathe_ , he tells himself frantically, thinking it would calm the panic rising up in him. It is not the kind of panic that could ever be talked down, though; it overwhelms him and steals the words right out of his mind, leaving it blank and feverish and filled with animal need.

That’s when Dean, completely dumbstruck, realizes that this is not a panic attack; the heat trailing up his neck and bubbling in his veins is a literal proof of his _actual heat_ overcoming him, like a tide coming in in waves, attacking the fragile walls of Dean’s rules and secrets, and bringing it down piece by piece.

His knees give out, but not in an act of weakness. They give up suddenly, without a warning, when Dean understands that there are no hands holding him, the new alpha’s intent stare not being enough, but yet he can feel the wetness in his pants, can feel the prickle of lust on his skin.

Still not in control of himself, he is only half aware of the quiet whimper trembling at the back of his throat like a wounded dog. It is good that he is not aware, it is in a way good that he is only aware of his own desperation, because at least, he doesn’t notice everyone staring at him. Dean’s mind is focused on storing the alpha’s scent, Castiel’s scent, right at the center of Dean’s very being, and prince or not, pretend-alpha or not, his fingers itch to open wide and grab at the counter and jump over it to be closer. 

Taking another step back, Dean wishes he would be able, or willing to shield himself with his deep-purple cape, but even though not interested, even though intimidated, he cannot shield himself from the three alphas’ eyes. His instincts hold him in place and make him stand still, for them to see; even the only beta in the room, Castiel’s mother.

“I think the prince needs a glass of water.” Castiel’s voice, unfamiliar up until a few minutes ago – possibly one of the things to cause this, to cause the heat to take Dean – fights its way into Dean’s mind without much trouble.

Dean realizes he’s panting as he watches Castiel glare at Dean’s guards, the other alphas in the room. It’s as if they were fighting for domination, as if they didn’t know that Dean has taken to Castiel’s scent and there’s no way of fixing it, as if they didn’t notice that his heat broke out, powerful enough to make it impossible to go back to the castle and seek someone else’s bed.

Dominance is established within seconds, even though they seem like an eternity to the drops of sweat on Dean’s forehead and the wetness in his pants, ever so persistent, heavy on him like a burden. The next thing Dean sees is Castiel circling the counter and taking a step towards him, making Dean gasp, making his body inch forward.

“I think a glass of water would help, prince?” he suggests again, his fingers curling around the edges of Dean’s cape, tugging at it slightly, leaving a sour taste in Dean’s mouth because it’s not his hair Castiel is tugging at.

Dean nods, although slightly confused, and lets Castiel lead him away in silence, one careful step after another, until Castiel’s fingers buried into the fabric take them both to the backroom, until the heavy wooden door falls close behind them with a thud, until an excited chatter explodes behind them.

For a few seconds, Dean dumbly does expect water, he just wishes Castiel would pour it into his mouth and then feed him, perhaps, with his bare hands. 

What he gets is different, something he should have expected, the alpha’s scent being so strong and all.

Shortly after entering the room, Castiel presses him against the wall without asking for permission, without having to ask for it. His hands run a marathon underneath Dean’s cape, and Dean doesn’t quite manage to bite back another whimper, as it is not enough, not even close, not enough friction.

Castiel’s hands slowly go up to Dean’s neck, dry from working with flour for most of his morning, but warm, so unbelievably warm as they press against Dean’s skin and touch his neck, intimate, gentle. Still not enough.

“I can’t believe this,” Castiel utters, his mouth barely inches from Dean’s. 

Dean has never had much pride to swallow, but when he swallows now, he feels like a part of him goes down with it and he is ready, fully ready for Castiel’s disbelieving stare, whether it is meant to humiliate or not. If only he could inch closer, if only their chests would meet, if only he could get at least a bit of friction, he would gladly stay here, breathing in the delicious scent, listening to mockery.

“I can’t believe this,” the alpha repeats with wonder, his eyes wide with surprise, one of his hands now cupping Dean’s feverish, freckled cheek. “What a late bloomer you are. I can smell it, it’s your first time, isn’t it, your highness,” he growls, moving closer and closer until he’s breathing the words into Dean’s mouth. “You smell so delicious, prince. I want a taste of you.”

Dean’s legs spread before Castiel can place his thigh between them. When he does, it slides in smoothly, their crotches meeting right away, the pleasure of it claiming Dean with force.

He whines, a sound slightly different from the whimper still hiding at the back of his throat, and he closes his eyes, parts his lips for Castiel to taste him, whenever he decides to.

Castiel doesn’t, however, grant Dean the gift a kiss would surely be. He sinks to his knees right in front of him, working Dean’s dark-brown pants open, his fingers skilled enough to hint at previous lovers. Dean wonders whether Castiel likes doing this, wonders whether this is only because he’s a royal omega and would make a good story to tell one day.

“I’m going to help you a little bit,” Castiel muses, focused on rolling Dean’s pants down, focused on doing the same with his underwear, now completely soaked in the actual proof of his want and need.

Castiel breathes in once Dean’s hard dick is out in the open, making Dean blush when he realizes his scent must be at its strongest now. His weak knees grow even weaker when Castiel’s hands travel up Dean’s thighs slowly, so slowly Dean feels like he might start screaming if something ( _anything_ ) doesn’t stop the hurricane swirling around his head; _want now need please_.

Castiel’s hand sneaks around until he presses his fingers against Dean’s slick opening and messages it for a bit, as if he wasn’t experienced enough to know that it makes Dean’s hips buck, and his mind explode. His mouth, in a somewhat calming gesture, presses against Dean’s hipbone in a butterfly kiss. 

Dean stops being himself when Castiel wraps his lips around his cock; as much as he wasn’t aware of being stared at at first, he is now not aware of the world. The only thing he can understand, what with his brain having shrunk down to lust and the knowledge of having an alpha near him, is Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel’s hands are present as well – teasing Dean, touching him when he needs it most. 

Dean bangs his head against the wall multiple times, each time in a sudden wave of pleasure and relief from the desperation he has been enveloped in. It’s never enough, though, even with Castiel’s mouth swallowing him down, even with his dick hitting Castiel’s throat, even with Castiel’s warm hands keeping him in place, and perhaps keeping him sane.

All in all, it’s over all too soon – the second Dean comes and Castiel’s hands stop moving, the second he pulls away, Dean wants more. As Castiel stands up, wiping at his mouth, Dean can feel himself grow hard again, can feel his ass squeeze in a constant need of wanting to feel someone, have someone – _Castiel_ inside of him.

His pleasured cry turns into a cry of desperation, for he wouldn’t dare to whine in dissatisfaction in front of an alpha -- _the_ alpha, the one who was good enough to grant him release for at least a little while, no matter how long it lasted.

Breathing heavily, Dean opens his eyes, the world around him too bright for his liking. He wishes it would be night, the middle of it, the darkest hour, even, and he would be in his bed, with this alpha beside him, with him, in him, holding him and fucking him and – and if he doesn’t stop his hips will quit cooperating and start humping whatever is near.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, because there is nothing else he could ever say after what just happened.

Castiel smiles sheepishly, his grin a proud one; he looks almost satisfied, Dean’s chest swelling in pride after all, because if this made Castiel happy, he does not have the right to complain.

His fingers hook over the v-neck of Castiel’s plain white shirt, the upper two buttons undone. The tips of his fingers brush against Castiel’s skin, and Dean gulps.

“Please,” he utters, the idea of what he wants to say somewhat clear in his head, but his voice not cooperating, as he wants to say ten thousand things all at once and he sub-consciously wants them to sound like a plea, not like an order – he has given out many of those, but to cast one upon Castiel would not be right. “Please – tonight – would you please come to the castle?”

“And deliver the bakery’s goods, prince?” Castiel asks mockingly as he works Dean’s pants close just as he worked them open minutes ago. He looks up, the flutter of his eyelashes not quite hiding the amusement in his eyes.

“No – I – ” Dean stutters, as ungraceful as he never should be. “If you could – please – come to the castle to see me, please.”

“How would I ever get to you?” Castiel asks, one of his hands now back to Dean’s face, cradling it, offering comfort. “Would you have me meet you in the gardens?”

“No,” Dean says again, but it’s okay, it’s okay to say no when he’s about to say yes to the rest – when he’s begging to say yes to the rest. “Tell the gate’s guards you’re there to see Ash. They’ll let you in. My chambers are in the right wing, I will – I will send someone for you, and then, if you could, knock twice. I will let you in. Please.”

“I heard saying no to royalty is bad luck,” Castiel replies, but by the way his eyes shine as he delivers this line, the way they meet Dean’s hopeful stare, Dean can tell he doesn’t mean it. And by the way he licks his lips, as if looking for yet another taste, another piece of Dean, perhaps they both know the alpha in Castiel is just as eager as the reckless omega in Dean. “Be sure to open the door for me, prince.”

“I will,” Dean assures him quickly. “Thank you,” he mutters again, and then – and then, unexpected, comes the kiss Dean has been yearning for. 

Their lips are a salty mess, but aside from said saltiness that has settled down in Castiel’s mouth, the remnant of Dean being there, Dean can taste all the world’s wonders in the open-mouthed kiss, tongues touching. 

The kiss, however heated and passionate, doesn’t last long enough either. Dean’s mouth is now open wide but alone, under the attack of the cold air, and Castiel’s hands leave Dean’s sides promptly.

“I will see you tonight, prince,” Castiel says, and if he didn’t open the door for the king’s son, Dean wouldn’t have been able to stumble out at all.

 

He seals the deal with Castiel’s mother in a rush, promising a fortune, and he pays the day’s guards two extra heavy pouches of money, just so they would keep this incident to themselves and leave the prince alone.

 

Dean dies a million times that afternoon, thinking about Castiel, waiting for him, his ass clenching and unclenching in need, muttering the alpha’s name and licking it away, into the deep warmth of his mouth.

He can’t sit still in his waiting. Sitting in a chair makes him hump and move against the seat, but trying to lie down is worse – within minutes, the sheets are soaked in sweat. To busy himself, Dean tries to think of Castiel’s past; he makes up stories and always inserts himself in them, so it’s always the two of them sharing beds, tents, or a cold spot on a rainy night underneath an old tree, their hair wet. They’re always fucking, Dean always letting Castiel knot him.

It is a distraction of sorts, but a poor one, as it doesn’t take any of Dean’s impatience away, only feeds it, makes it stronger.

Evening couldn’t come fast enough – by the time the skies turn dark blue, velvet and then black, stained with stars, Dean is standing by the door, cooling his hot forehead on its surface unsuccessfully. 

By the time there’s finally a knock, Dean doesn’t wait for it to repeat itself. He knows it could be Bela, he knows it could be the king’s servant here to tell Dean the king wishes to speak with him, but he doesn’t care. As far as he knows, no one has been informed of the situation, but he couldn’t care less right now – if it’s a maid here to do whatever, so be it. Dean can’t possibly wait for knock number two.

He is lucky enough to be met with Castiel’s face when he so carelessly opens the door. The alpha is wearing the same clothes, the sleeves of his shirt now rolled up to his elbows. 

“I could smell you at the gates,” Castiel informs him instead of a formal greeting, but Dean is surprised to find that he is not alarmed by this. It does mean that other alphas could possibly smell him, but it doesn’t matter – few hours in and he feels like no other alpha would recognize his smell, no matter how obvious, because it has always been masked by others’.

Dean wants to say, _I’m glad_. He wants to say, _glad you came_ , or _glad you could recognize me_.

Before he can open his mouth in a grateful thank you, Castiel’s lips are on his, rushing, hurrying to get there, the reluctance from before overshadowed by their anticipation now bursting out in flames as Castiel pushes them both deeper into Dean’s chamber.

Dean’s face is flushed, both in the tremor of his heat and the embarrassment of having shrugged off his shirt long before Castiel showed up. 

Castiel’s hand now presses against Dean’s bare chest, just as freckled as his cheeks, presses above his heart, lingers there not only to push Dean further into the room but to feel Dean’s heartbeat against the life line carved into the center of his palm.

They keep kissing, stealing little sounds from each other’s mouths, Dean obediently stepping back, wherever Castiel leads him. They keep kissing, slowly shredding their clothes until the alpha’s hand rests on Dean’s lower back, teasing, firm. 

They fall on top of Dean’s bed, and the prince frantically remembers that he never locked the doors, but the thought scurries away under the weight of Castiel’s body on top of him. He feels safe.

Dean, even though he can only articulate it in low whines and silent whimpers and brows furrowed in concentration, is at his happiest. Never has he felt so much connection and protection in his life as he does now, with Castiel’s hands discovering him inch by inch. Maybe it’s the fact that he can now breathe in the scent of a real alpha, so breathtakingly unafraid of doing this, and feel an alpha’s body against his; but Dean, perhaps naively, believes it’s also because the alpha who is now taking care of him is someone like Castiel.

Dean can recall all his past relationships that have been thrust upon him, female and male betas one after another; he took to some of them, talked to some of them, but none of them felt safe. None of them felt like the only person in the world. 

Castiel, when he finally guides himself into Dean, feels that way.

Dean cries out when he can finally feel the alpha inside him. He clenches around the alpha’s pulsing cock for as long as he dares just to savior this amazing feeling, the feeling of almost-completion that overwhelms him.

The steady rocking of the bed as Castiel moves them, thrusting into Dean, and the sweat-ridden sheets clinging to Dean’s back is all the prince could ever ask for, even though the world is spinning. It is not too much; it is finally enough, and he has finally been treated to it.

“Alpha,” Dean whimpers with his eyes closed but fingers pressed against Castiel’s shoulders, enough of a presence. He earns a satisfied growl in response, one that echoes through Dean’s very own lungs and shakes him.

“They had no right,” Castiel whispers into the skin of Dean’s shoulder, into the crook of his neck, in between his parted lips. “You make a wonderful omega, prince.”

Dean starts shivering almost sub-consciously in the preparation for what is to come. He has read stories, he knows even though he has been denied this. He knows to spread his legs, he knows to look up, he knows to touch. 

And he is shivering.

“Please, yes,” he whispers in between thrusts, and his fingers dig deeper into Castiel’s skin, sadly lacking ornaments but still beautiful as it glistens with sweat. 

When the alpha knots him, Dean’s whole body squeezes and relaxes all at the same time – Dean at least thinks so, it sure feels like it. His mouth open and eyes shut in bliss, his hands grab and grab until Castiel guides them into his own palms and their fingers entwine.

“It feels so good,” Dean breathes out, or maybe Castiel does, or maybe they both do; Dean wouldn’t know, because the alpha is knotting him and nothing has ever felt this amazing. 

It doesn’t take long for Dean to come – being a late bloomer, as Castiel had called it, makes everything more intense. And when Castiel thrusts in, and holds still despite his own panting, chest heaving in impatient breaths, waiting for Dean to stain both their bellies with come, Dean can really see stars, can travel across the galaxies.

His fingers slide down Castiel’s sweaty shoulders, not catching on his biceps.

 _I feel spent,_ he wants to say, but his ass clenches around Castiel’s dick within minutes after his first orgasm.

Castiel can feel it; the sweet and easy slide of his dick as he moves to pull out against Dean’s slick. He grunts, dissatisfied, but his hands come to comfort Dean in a quick caress and he stays atop Dean, panting, mouth open, sweat covering his skin and dropping down onto Dean’s chest… his knot still in, moving only gently, driving Dean to another orgasm.

Not the last one, either; they trash the sheets, shuffle around, Dean saying thanks and thanks again every time he is coherent enough to slur it out. 

It’s nothing, it’s nothing, I want you, the alpha breathes, every time.

 

Dean is astonished to find out that a reality such as this can exist for him. He gets free mornings, he gets breakfast in bed, he gets Bela covering for him, he gets an alpha – he gets Castiel to wake up to during his heat, and no matter the hour, he gets the calming he needs.

It’s nine in the morning and Castiel gently brings Dean up till he’s kneeling, and fucks him until Dean’s itch eases and he can eat grapes, snatching them from Castiel’s fingers.

It’s noon and Dean and Castiel sneak around in the gardens until they can go back to Dean’s chambers to new clean sheets just to stain them again.

It’s three in the morning and when Dean wakes up whining and humping the alpha’s leg, Castiel, while sleepily and lazily, fingers Dean until Dean comes twice.

It’s five in the afternoon and they’re fucking and Castiel’s palm runs down Dean’s back, stopping just above where he’s buried in him, knotting again. “My rut is coming around,” Castiel says and Dean can feel the familiar heat on Castiel’s skin, too.

“You have triggered it,” the alpha says four hours later when Dean’s hand playfully goes to Castiel’s cock and his eyes pleadingly search Castiel’s face for a nod or another sign of approval. The prince thinks those words are it.

It’s midnight on their fourth night together, Dean now used to sharing his bed with the baker whose skin is still warm and fingers still dry from flour even though he hasn’t touched it in days. They are lying opposite each other, Castiel’s knot inside of Dean, Dean’s leg thrown over Castiel’s hip. 

Dean’s eyelids are heavy but Castiel takes care so as to move every time they blink close. 

“This will be over soon,” the alpha reminds the prince. 

“No,” the omega argues. Dean opens his eyes, frowning slightly. “If you want this, I won’t let them take you away from me. And I won’t let them hurt you, though they might try.”

Castiel nods, for his slightly bared teeth and almost unnoticeable concern settling in his eyes are enough to say that yes, he does want this. They have been irresponsible enough; for all they know, Dean could be with a child by now, for all they know, the king might have noticed that despite making a deal with the baker, there is no pie on his morning table. 

“I will protect you,” Castiel adds despite knowing he will inevitably need to be protected as well, but it’s unnecessary.

Dean knows this. He has known since Castiel’s fingers traced the hem of his cape and led him out of the room when it all started, he has known and loved it ever since. 

His small smile turns into a low hum when Castiel moves again and Dean’s cock hardens once more. He settles in the alpha’s arms -- _his_ alpha’s arms. Happily, he lets himself be taken.


End file.
